Bill and Margaret return home to Bluebird Street

While standing at the kitchen window early one recent morning, a brilliant flash of blue caught my eye. It came from the far side of the backyard, where several winter-worn bluebird boxes wait for occupants.

I had meant to take better care of the boxes this past winter. I had meant to sand them, give them a fresh coat of paint, clean them of any debris inside, and set the poles they stand on straight. But as with many good intentions during the gray months, the mission did not get accomplished. The boxes are peeling paint; they stand on poles that tilt one way or the other. I have lapsed in my role as landlord.

Bill and Margaret, however, do not seem to mind. They are not picky. Every early spring for the past several years, they have arrived in my backyard and begun the business of making babies.

They land on one nesting box and then fly to the next. They steal away to the nearby tree branches. They especially like the oak tree that once held a rope swing. They wait, they watch, and finally, they choose the box that has an old cookie cutter in the shape of a heart attached to its top.

They begin building their nest inside the box, favoring the use of short, brown grass from the nearby backyard. They also search for any feathers or hair that can be found to further soften the nest.

Bill and Margaret work hard. Their energy is impressive. I enjoy watching them zip and zag across my backyard and into the woods. I enjoy watching them light on a tree limb, so extremely aware of the world around them.

And why I have chosen to believe it is the same pair of bluebirds — that the two birds are, indeed, Bill and Margaret as opposed to Jeff and Diana or John and Debbie — is hardly scientific. My choice is a source of comfort, a dose of faith, a glimmer of hope.

I like to believe that there is some routine, some steadiness to our existence here on Earth. I like to believe that everything I see and feel and find disturbing about the ways of our modern world is offset by relatively subtle events like the annual arrival of Bill and Margaret.

They say some things never change, and while that missive is oft expressed in a disparaging way, isn't it comforting to think that indeed, some things really don't change? Some things — like Bill and Margaret flying around my backyard finding the material for their nest — can be counted on, waited for, welcomed and celebrated.

I suppose there are those who would say Bill and Margaret's arrival in my backyard is no big deal. They are just birds. Pretty ones, but birds all the same. And probably a different pair every year.